Infinality
by TeaBrew
Summary: "Maybe I have some of his darkness inside of me. Why else would there be a part of me that loves a part of him?" Malik's thoughts on his Yami. Very dark/violent/angsty.


Malik's point of view on his Yami. My reasons for writing this twisted fic are at the bottom. Written in one sitting, so bear with me if there are any mistakes; I checked them over beforehand anyway, but please be gentle… ^_^;; My first attempt at writing Malik/Yami no Malik characters so be nice.

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**_Warnings:_** Mild shounen-ai. I mean it. Twisted on so many levels it's not funny. Blood, lots of it. Death, lots of it. Violence…yep, lots of it. 

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Infinality

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What does he do when I'm not there?

Simple.

He plays.

He plays with the life around him.

He has his fun and then returns me to life as if nothing ever happened.

But his games are dark.

Are twisted.

Are cruel.

Are sick…

He though it amusing that he once returned me to existence in a field of flesh and blood.

Bodies strewn randomly about as though a mass slumber had just occurred in the street.

I choked.

I fell to my knees with the stench, hands flying to my face.

But I did not cry.

I couldn't.

Why cry over spilt milk?

He would only do it again later…

He laughed at my pain then.

I could feel his rapture through my soul.

Our soul.

My other half.

My darker half.

When he is around, I never see anything.

When he is around, I only hear.

Have you ever closed your eyes and just listened?

Do you know how utterly petrifying the darkness in my mind is?

To only hear as hundreds are slaughtered for fun?

Only seeing when he thinks it time to show me.

Only seeing carnage aftermath in its purest form.

Only hearing as it is performed.

When he showed me that one scene, it never stirred in my heart.

It never hurt my soul.

It never ached at my very being.

But the strangest thing, the most morbid thing…

His laughter.

His maniacal laughter echoing through my head.

It soothed whatever feelings I had.

It filled me with something that let me block it all out.

He is my darkness, just as I am his light.

He knows I am weak and he prides himself on his malice towards me.

How he has beaten me.

Let me count the ways…

Head, arms, legs, chest, back, neck…

Places I never knew could ache throbbing in more ways imaginable.

And he would always laugh afterwards.

Laugh at my fallen form, sprawled on the ground, bleeding and broken.

I would curl up, or not move at all, and he would sit with me.

Sit with me and stroke my flaxen hair, cooing softly.

He is so sadistic sometimes…

But he would always shove me away and chuckle again.

Weak he called me.

Pathetic.

Cowardly.

Insignificant.

Nothing.

…Mortal.

He was infinite.

I was finite.

That stirred in my heart.

Infinite meant everlasting.

He would always be there.

When he beat me, cooed to me, or showed a scene of slaughter to me.

He would always be there.

When he challenged the Pharaoh, lost to him, took it out on me.

He would always be there.

When he would laugh in that tone that meant no mercy.

…

I stored that inside of me, knowing it would always be there…

His laughter…

His voice, full and rich, throbbing like the very blood in my veins.

The blood he loved to lap.

My blood.

His laughter.

The same essence.

The same warmth.

The same infinite entity.

Maybe I have some of his darkness inside of me.

Why else would there be a part of me that loves a part of him?

A part so exquisite.

A part so bursting.

And then…

So empty…

He tells me not of his past.

I know not of mine.

I have forgotten of mine.

Millennia…

How many have passed?

Three?

Four?

It matters not to me anymore.

Why dwell on that which has passed?

It only hurts to remember.

Past is passed.

Present is past.

Future is the past yet to come.

The future shall become the past.

Another millennia?

Another two?

Three?

How long until I can stop?

How long until his laughter stops?

Until I can no longer remember his gently cooing?

His fingers trailing through my bloodied hair?

His twisted smile as he suckled on my blood?

His…

Just his…

…

Just him…

I want to remember him always.

This creature of malice who stole my soul.

My memories.

My death.

My existence.

Me.

Did he really steal me?

Did he really turn me into a creature so like himself?

Am I really him?

I hold the same blood in my hands, maybe I am?

I hold the same weapon.

Sennen Rod.

Power.

Bringer of destruction.

And of death.

An item like this would once have been sacred.

Secreted away by a curator to some museum.

Shown to the world on a delicate ebony stand.

No.

Never.

He cares not for its value.

It is not fragile to him.

It is a weapon.

A symbol of his strength.

Of his defiance.

Of his soul.

His infinality.

He is infinite…

He will always be there…

He shall never leave me though he hates me so.

Does he hate me?

Does he really?

Methinks…perhaps…

Does his hatred burn in his fingertips?

The ones he uses so mercilessly to purge the life around him?

The ones he uses to gently brush through my bloodied hair?

He once accidentally brushed the skin of my cheek as he did so.

Predictably, he struck me away again.

Called me weak.

Pathetic.

Cowardly.

Insignificant.

…

But he did not call me mortal…

Was he beginning to understand my crumpled logic?

That he would never leave?

That he would always be around?

He left me there.

Broken.

Bleeding.

Alone.

But I still smiled.

I was so afraid to move, afraid that I would hurt more.

But still I smiled through split and bruised lips.

He understood…

So did I.

I had known for a few millennia of this finality.

Of how he would never leave.

His soul was mine, just as much as mine was his.

He knew that now.

Knew that a weakling trapped him.

Someone pathetic.

A coward.

An insignificant person.

The finite held the infinite…

A mortal held a god…

I smiled until I slipped into slumber.

I awoke to see another street a scene of slaughter.

And I smiled.

He was confused.

I had always choked.

Fallen to my knees.

But this time…

This time I cried…

I wrapped my arms around my tattered body and let the tears come.

Streaming trails of silver slipped down bronzed cheeks, falling to the bloodied dust below.

He frowned at me.

Why was I still smiling, he asked.

Was I finally admitting my infinite weakness, he asked.

Had I finally cracked, he asked.

I could not answer, the tears blurred my eyes and I choked on my words.

I could only smile, my arms hugging my body tighter, silver droplets staining my shirt.

A hand reached out.

It caught a tiny drop of silver.

He was there, standing next to me.

I smiled.

He scowled.

He beat me harder than he ever had before.

I had forgotten what a life without torture felt like at that moment.

My blood fell, mingled with the blood of others on the death filled street.

I forgot all aspect of time.

How long had he beaten me?

A minute?

An hour?

A day?

When I finally opened my eyes, the sun was above me.

Staring down at me in all its golden radiance.

Raising a bloodied hand, I stared hard at the creases in my skin.

At the crimson streams that ran down my arm.

At the sudden realisation that my hands had the softest skin…

I would scar.

I would have more of him to store inside of me.

I would have more of him to remember now.

To have.

To hold.

To hold?

To have him stroke my hair, to coo to me, to shove me away and call me weak.

To hold?

Maybe to strangle me, to slap my face, to cause harm to my body once more.

But to hold…?

Maybe.

Just maybe.

He understood that our existence was infinite now.

Our coexistence.

He hated me for that.

I relished him for that.

He was a god brought to his knees by a mortal.

He was in denial.

He was angered beyond all compare.

He brought to life a passion I never knew existed in him.

All through realisation.

He knew it now.

He could not live without me.

I could not live without him.

We were in the proverbial rut.

He was stuck.

I was smiling again.

He never showed me any tenderness or scrap of decency, other than to coo over his work.

I never minded.

Maybe I am a little bit of the darkness he embodies.

His laughter is what fuels me.

The scars he gives me are what drives me.

The sadistic pleasure he gets by showing me his bloodied art makes me smile.

This creature of malice who stole my soul.

My memories.

My existence.

My death.

Me.

He stole my everything.

He became my everything.

He will always be my everything.

When I'm awake, I hear the screams.

When I dream, I know it is I who create them.

It is he who creates them.

It is us.

Always us.

Forever us.

~End

Twisted ne? Damn, and I wrote this all in one sitting after creating a new blog animation. The basis for it all came form this one doujinshi I read where Malik is confronted by his Yami and goes through a major emotional breakdown. He just can't stop shaking and crying when Yami no Malik grabs him, and it freaked him out enough for me to write a ficlet. ^_^ I am so faskin sadistic… -_- *ahem* Anyhoo, hope you enjoyed my first Malik POV story.


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